


The Fellatio of Sorrow

by islasands



Series: The Diary of an Incomplete Bastard [1]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:52:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islasands/pseuds/islasands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fucking, like any other human interaction, has more to it than even the participants can guess. </p><p>The Japanese bamboo flute - the shakuhirachi - is shrill and breathlike by turns. It seemed a good match for the  subtext of this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fellatio of Sorrow

"Shiko no tone"

 

Kohachiro Miyata 

 

 

  


 

 

 

They wandered down the headland path, each with things on their minds other than their surroundings. Adam was frowning at the imposition of having to put in any of this pre-fuck togetherness. They had met at a bar the night before and in hindsight he knew things should have begun and ended there. Now, in the dull overcast light of day all he wanted to do was make a hollow in the long grass and sleep in it. Alone. He glanced back at the man to estimate the current standing of his interest in fucking him. Zilch. The dude might as well have been a stranger following rather than accompanying him. What a waste of time. He sighed. He felt as empty of desire as the wind that was absentmindedly running its hands through the vegetation on the hillside. It was not an unpleasant sensation. "It's a thirty something thing," he thought. "That's what it is. It's the thirty-something ennui setting in." He inwardly smiled at how much he had changed. Once upon a time he would have happily ended the chase at the bar and moved on. Prolonged pursuits were not his style. He remembered seeing a documentary about the hunting strategies of lions, and how their musculature was designed for sudden, often deadly, acceleration. But their predatory speed was short-lived. If they missed their chance they had to rest. "I really want to rest," he thought. "I want to lie down and be fucked by the wind. I want to hear the sea dragging at stones on a shingle beach. I want to be nothing special, nothing important, just for five fucking minutes. We should turn back. What the fuck was I thinking."

He ran his thirty-something mind over the way their eyes had met when they happened to be standing next to one another at the bar, and how instantly his groin had felt as though it was packed with hot sand. The man had rested his arm on the bar, deliberately making contact with Adam's arm. Adam had casually taken hold of his wrist and pressed his fingers against the collection of blood vessels on its underside. "Your pulse is speaking volumes," he had said, and the man had looked down at their two hands. "You're right," he agreed. "I'm definitely running a temperature." He smiled into Adam's eyes. He had an interesting smile that turned up in one corner, suggesting either a sardonic or lackadaisical disposition. Both possibilities were attractive. As for his nose. What a nose! It was too large for his face, but was arched so finely, and with such precisely defined nostrils, that it gave his expression an arrogant edge. "Like that actor with a big nose," he had thought. "Adrian someone. He's a sexy fuck. And so are you, whoever you are. So are you."

"You need to drink plenty of water," he had said, placing his palm on the man's forehead. Their bodies were so close and their arousal so intense that the air around them thickened as though its molecules had been dipped in sap. The smell of the man's neck when he bent forward to whisper in his ear smelled of pine needles. It was such a heady scent he could hardly perform the obligatory ritual of sexual banter. His sentences struggled like insects caught in syrup. His hand found the waist of the man's jeans and he pulled him close so their genitals could do the real talking. The woodlands metaphor persisted as they kissed. "Up here," he thought, "is the canopy. Our heads are in the clouds. Our thoughts are moving to and fro while our tongues are silenced by our kissing. But down there, far below, down there, that's where the real business of life is taking place. Roots sucking life out of the black earth. The secret depths where memories are buried like bones. The people I have fucked, literally or over. The people I have loved, for good or for ill. The remains of desire enriching every new encounter."

It was these earthy thoughts that had persuaded him, when their connection was abruptly severed by the arrival of a friend, to accept the invitation to finish what they had begun by meeting up the next day. Hence, here they were in the middle of nowhere, walking down a zig-zagging path to where the headland buried its head in the sea, to where rocks were blackened by its spray, to where something he didn't want to happen was probably going to happen.

Once there, they picked their way out to the largest boulders and stood there for a while. The man stood behind him and put his arms around his waist. He was not averse to the man's embrace but if anything his reserve was being deepened by the sullen presence of the sea's great heaving body. Giant beds of kelp were made visible in the rises of the swell. The water was a dark gleaming grey laced with swirls of white. The man suddenly released him. "I gotta get in there," he said. Adam watched as he took off his clothes and laid them in a pile. 

"Are you sure?" Adam said, alarmed when he saw how slight the man was. "If anything happens," he called out, as the man gingerly picked his way over the  barnacle infested rocks, "I won't be able to help. Drowning isn't on my checklist for ways to die."

The man laughed at him and lowered himself into the water. He quickly swam out into the swell and lay on his back. "You should get in!" he called out. "It's like liquid marble. Cold as fuck!"

Adam folded his arms across his chest. He watched the man diving then surfacing elsewhere. The swell rose up and briefly showed the man cast against a wall of kelp. He disappeared for a worrying length of time. Finally he emerged much further out. It was ridiculous. What did he think he was doing. "Go on then," he muttered to himself. "Keep going and don't come back." But no sooner had he uttered these words than his mood suddenly changed. "Come back!" he called out. He went closer to the rocky edge and called out again through cupped hands. The man heard him and waved. He swam back to the rocks and clung to them, his body trailing behind him in the swirling marbled water. His hair hung in clumps on his forehead. His eyes were as black as the rocks. His hands, Adam noted, were delicate, the fingers long and narrow. The arch of his nose looked even more defiant now that his hair was flattened and his face was white and wet. It looked as though it not only was in charge of that face but of the entire world. He might be slight but he was strong. He lay there laughing up at him, insolent in his strength, as though the violence of water and rock amongst which he lay was a pool in his back yard. "I want you," Adam said. 

And he did. He bent down and gave him his hand. He pulled him up then pulled him roughly against his body. He could feel the cold nakedness of him seeping through his clothing. "Lie down," he said, pulling him back to a rock that had a table top to it. The man protested. "I'll be ripped to shreds," he said. But he did lie down and when Adam unbuckled his belt and undid his fly he reached up and pulled at the sides of his jeans. Adam lowered himself and straddled the mans waist. "Holy fuck," the man said as the barnacles bit into his flesh. He looked up the sky as though summoning fortitude from its implacable white emptiness. He lifted his head. "Get in my mouth," he said. "Get in my mouth," he said again. Adam looked at his mouth. Even now, under the duress of lying naked on a bed of barnacle nails, his lips were wryly curled up in one corner. "Put your arms above your head," he replied. He rose up from his sitting position and moved forward on his hands and knees. The barnacles pierced his knees and palms but he ignored the pain. He took hold of his cock and used it to touch the sides of the man's arrogant nose. "Who's in charge, now," he said silently to the nose. The man reached down one arm to lend a helping hand and he batted it away.  "No," he said. "Keep your arms up." The man returned his arm to its position above his head. He closed his eyes. Adam pressed the head of his cock onto the man's lips and when the man's mouth closed over it he looked up and ahead. 

Beyond the rocks the sea was slowly breathing in and out. The cold of it's exhalations fell in waves over his face. His supporting hand was getting numb. It felt as though he was kneeling on the points of knives and his thighs were shuddering. He gripped the base of his cock. He didn't want to ejaculate. Not for ages. He wanted to remain like this for as long as possible, the warmth of his being hardened into a single expression of advance and retreat, forward and back, forward and back, in a rhythm no more meaningful than that of the sea's. He wanted to feel the sea's breath on his face, his cheeks stinging from the spray and the pain of his life being assuaged by the strength of the man lying beneath him, who unwittingly, innocently, was sharing and partaking of his sufferings, and by the sound of the sea that was sighing and splashing and breaking all around them. 

And he began to heal. 


End file.
